"No," she answered, "not Mr. Bulpert, thank you. Mr. Trew is different."
"He isn't the man he was when I first knew him."
"I like him because he's the man he is."
She turned quickly at the sound of a deep, husky voice. Mr. Trew, on the mat, opened his arms at sight of her, and beamed with a face that was like the midday sun; she took his sleeve and pulled him to the pavement.
"At five minutes to five," she whispered urgently, "you're going to take me for a walk in Hyde Park."
"At four fifty-five to the minute," he agreed. "What's the game, may I kindly ask?"
"I'll tell you later on."
"I hadn't noticed it," he said loudly, re-entering the shop, "until my attention was drawed to it by the little missy here. But there it is right enough on the playcards. 'Motor omnibuses for London.'" He shook his head, and, leaning across the counter, addressed Mrs. Mills. "Light of my life, sunshine of my existence—"
"Don't you begin your nonsense," ordered the lady, not displeased.
"—And sweetheart when a boy, I warn you against putting any of your ill-gotten gains into that sort of speculation. They may perhaps start one from the Elephant and it'll get about as fur as the Obelisk, and there it'll stick. And they'll have to take it to pieces, and sell it for scrap iron. I know what I'm talking about."